


Invasion

by EsperHeart



Category: Onward (2020)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:28:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26296432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EsperHeart/pseuds/EsperHeart
Summary: Ian Lightfoot isn't having a good time, since he's bedridden with an illness. It isn't so bad, though--his mother and brother are tending to him, and he's determined to get better.But when his mother and stepfather leave for work and Barley has to run an errand, Ian learns that recovery won't be as quick as he'd hoped.After all, burglars won't wait for you to heal before you face them.
Relationships: Barley Lightfoot & Ian Lightfoot, Ian Lightfoot & Laurel Lightfoot
Comments: 15
Kudos: 43





	Invasion

"Mom, do me a favor," Ian groaned.

"What is it, sweetie?" his mother asked as she placed a damp, folded-up dish towel on his forehead.

"Kill me quickly."

"Iandore Lightfoot!" Laurel scolded, lightly smacking his shoulder. 

"Sorry," he sighed. And he was...but he couldn't help it. His head was throbbing, he was thirsty all the time, and his throat felt sore. A chill had settled into his bones that wouldn't go away, and no matter how hard he tried to stay awake, sleep kept pulling him back under. 

The funny thing was, his illness actually wasn't that bad--at least, according to the doctor. Nobody was too concerned when his symptoms had started--it was only when they had persisted into the next day that Laurel drove Ian to the clinic for a check-up. They had concluded that it was a very mild case of the flu, something easily dealt with as long as Ian had plenty of rest. Although they warned the Lightfoots to bring him back in if he didn't get better in a week or so--or, if his sickness got particularly bad, to get him checked out at a hospital...something that nobody in the family wanted to think about. 

Laurel looked at the mess that was rapidly growing on Ian's nightstand (the cold-and-flu medicine box, a glass of water that was mostly empty, a packet of tissues, an ice pack that had long thawed out) and selected the thermometer. "Open," she said.

Ian complied, and he let his tongue settle on the tip of the thermometer. His fingers traced the pattern on his quilt as the two of them waited, and once it beeped Laurel pulled it out of his mouth. "100.9," she reported.

Ian sighed again and closed his eyes. The same as it was the past couple of days; so far his fever hadn't gone down at all...though on the other hand, it hadn't gone _up_ , either. A light knock pulled Ian from his thoughts.

"How's he doing?" Barley asked from his bedroom doorway. 

"He's fine," their mother said, at the same time that Ian croaked, "No change." 

Footsteps drew closer to his bed, and Ian knew that his brother had entered the room when Laurel said sternly, "Hey, back out the door, mister!" 

"Are you _really_ denying me the chance to see to my little brother?" Barley asked indignantly. _"Me,_ your oldest and most rule-abiding son?" 

Ian snorted. "That's rich coming from the guy who sabotaged a bulldozer." 

"Hey--I told you, that was in the name of the Great Temptress, History!"

Ian's eyes opened and he raised an eyebrow at Barley. _Temptress?_ Before he could say this, their mother cut across both of them.

"Barley, your brother has the flu."

"A _tiiiiiiiny_ case," Barley reminded her.

"It doesn't matter how mild it is, you can still catch it from him!" she said insistently. 

"Mom, surely you remember my track record as far as sickness goes--I'm not scared of the flu! In fact, it's safe to say that the _flu_ is afraid of _me!"_ Without waiting for her to respond, Barley stepped right up to the side of Ian's bed, looking down at him with a smile. Laurel sighed in exasperation. 

"Well, if you're gonna be in here anyway, could you make sure Ian doesn't fall asleep? I still need to make him dinner."

"Affirmative, Sweet Mother!"

"Mom, that's okay, I'm not hungry," Ian said quietly; he could feel the effects of drowsiness creeping back up.

His mother placed her hands on her hips and frowned. "Ian, it's been hours since you last had something, and frankly, it wasn't much. You need to eat something a little more substantial than broth." 

Ian rubbed his eyes. He knew she was right, but his appetite had mostly vanished. He hadn't suffered from nausea (something he was incredibly grateful for), but it felt as though his stomach had shrunk to the size of an almond.

"How about applesauce?" he tried. At the very least, he thought he could manage that.

There was relief in Laurel's smile. "Sure, honey." With that, she turned and left the room.

Ian felt his eyelids slide shut...but a moment later someone was shaking his shoulder. He gasped as his eyes flew back open.

"Ah-ah-ah-ah! No sleeping, Young Sorcerer!" 

"I know," Ian replied in a defeated tone. "I don't wanna sleep anymore...but it's hard not to."

"I get that," Barley nodded. And he probably did; Barley was more energetic than anyone Ian had ever known. 

Ian saw Barley's gaze shift to his nightstand. "You thirsty?" he asked his little brother.

Ian nodded, but stopped when it agitated his headache. "Yeah."

Barley grinned as he reached into the pocket on the inside of his vest. "Well, you're in luck!" And with that he pulled out a full bottle of water. "Voila!" 

Ian chuckled as he accepted the gift. "Thanks," he said sincerely. 

Barley's smile softened as he settled a large hand on top of Ian's head. "You're welcome, Ian." 

* * *

The next morning, Ian was only feeling partially rested, his sleep having been plagued with strange dreams that he was too exhausted to even recall. Laurel had just finished taking his temperature (100.7, which was slightly promising), and was about to head out for work.

"Okay, Barley, we're running really low on food," (Ian remembered that his mother had been planning to make her monthly grocery trip before he got sick), "but there should be a couple of cans of soup left to give Ian today. I'll run to the store to get some more supplies after I get off work today, so just remember to make sure Ian gets his medicine on time." 

"Yes, ma'am!"

Ian heard a yip, and the next thing he knew Blazey had hopped onto his bed, wriggling and hyper as usual. He grimaced and braced himself for one of her usual barrages, but instead she blinked at him and slowed. She sniffed his face and gave a few gentle licks. Ian relaxed; he wasn't sure how, but she had a knack for sensing when her owners weren't feeling right, and she adjusted herself accordingly. He smiled at his favorite dragon and scratched her chin. 

"How're you holding up, kiddo?" 

Ian shifted his attention from Blazey to his stepfather, who was standing just outside his doorway (having not quite mastered the art of angling his four-legged body to walk into the room). Even though it wasn't quite the truth, Ian gave Colt a shaky thumbs-up. Colt nodded back, a pleased expression on his face.

Ian had to admit, Colt having moved into their house was still something he was getting used to: for as long as he could remember, it had always been just him, Barley, and their mother (and after a while, Blazey). When she had first started dating Colt, Ian hadn't known how to feel. He wasn't certain whether he liked him...although he had never _dis_ liked him, either. Even when Colt and Laurel's relationship had stretched into long-term status, Ian had felt awkward around the centaur policeman, and the feeling had been mutual. However, in the past few months, Ian had come to understand that Colt genuinely cared about their well-being and really did want to connect to his stepsons (even if he hadn't always gone about things the right way). After realizing that, interacting with his stepfather had gotten somewhat easier.

"He'll be fine," Barley said confidently. "Nothing's going to keep this mighty battlemage down forever!" He ruffled Ian's hair to emphasize his point--then retracted his hand when Ian groaned miserably.

"Head still hurts?" Barley asked with a wince.

"Yep..."

"Sorry..."

Ian gave his older brother a small, but reassuring smile. "It's okay...it's not as bad as it was."

Colt spoke. "You boys have got my number--if something comes up, don't be afraid to call!" 

"Yeah, got it," Barley said, and his lack of enthusiasm didn't escape Ian's notice: while Barley had never really disliked Colt, either, his attempts to preserve the older structures of New Mushroomton had often put him at odds with their stepfather even before he had started dating their mother. As such, there were many things that the two of them didn't quite see eye to eye on. 

As Colt left the doorway and made his way back downstairs, Laurel kissed Barley's cheek (the latter bending his head down so she could reach it more easily) and tucked a few loose curls behind Ian's ear. "You two have a good day."

"We will!" Barley stated.

"Meh." Ian said.

* * *

A few hours later, Ian was sitting up and leaning back on his pillows. In his hands was the Quests of Yore manual that Barley had loaned to him; it was one of his rare wakeful moments, and he wanted to enjoy it while it lasted. As he lazily flipped through the pages, skimming a paragraph here and there, one page caught his eye. 

_Energy Spell_

_Have you still miles to go before you sleep? Is your mind willing, but your body refusing to budge? The following Spell will give you the assistance you need to put one foot in front of the other, even when sleep is all you desire._

_Raiseth thy staff high, and reciteth this Mystic Incantation:_

_Vimzesta_

"Vimzesta," Ian whispered thoughtfully. Truthfully, an energy spell sounded absolutely wonderful right now; he loved the idea of being able to leave this bed without feeling like he was going to tip over. He turned his head to look at his staff, which was propped up against his headboard. He was about to reach for it when he happened to return his attention to the book and saw something else that was written on the page.

_Noteth:_

_Although this Spell will provide a surge of energy, it is only temporary. It may wear off in perilous situations!_

"Well, great," Ian grumbled. While the odds of ending up in peril were incredibly slim, Ian didn't want to be _temporarily_ okay; he wanted to be _permanently_ okay. Not only that, but Ian realized that the text didn't mention anything about how it would affect someone who was sick rather than just tired; he knew that strenuous activity could exacerbate the symptoms of a fever, which was why rest was so important. For all he knew, this spell could actually be detrimental to his recovery. He did, however, file it away in his head for the next time he had to undergo a late-night study session. 

There was a knock on his bedroom door. "Come in," Ian called hoarsely. 

The door opened, and Barley entered with a bowl in his oven-mitted hands, Blazey trailing behind him and sniffing the air. Steam drifted up from its contents. "Lunch is served, Sir Iandore," Barley declared. 

Ian put the book aside and shifted so that he was more comfortable. He leaned over the side of his bed and retrieved the TV tray that his mother had deposited when he'd first been ordered to bed. 

"Hey, I could've gotten that for you," Barley protested.

"Barley, you and Mom have been doing enough. Besides, I'm not that weak." Even as Ian said this, though, the world seemed to shift on its axis as he righted himself. As he blew air on the chowder Barley had set down in front of him to cool it (and pushed Blazey's head away when she got too close to it), his older brother checked the time on his cell phone. 

"About time to give you your medicine, too."

"I can take my own medicine," Ian insisted. However, he was proven wrong when he picked the box up from his nightstand and found it empty. "Uhhh..." 

Barley took the box from Ian and peeked inside. He shrugged. "There's probably more downstairs; I shall track it down. In the meantime, feast, Young Squire!" On that dramatic note, he exited the room. 

Ian ate a few tentative spoonfuls of chowder as he waited for Barley to return, trying to ignore Blazey's begging stare that she was directing at him. As time stretched on and Ian's appetite waned, however, he finally caved and set his bowl on the floor. Blazey happily inhaled what was left of the food. No sense leaving it to go cold. 

Shouldn't Barley have been back by now? 

Right on cue, Barley appeared in the doorway, holding a bottle in his hand. Ian frowned when he recognized it. "That's not the cold-and-flu stuff."

Barley grimaced. "No, it's the generic stuff--but I can't find any of the other stuff. I think that box you've got was the last one we had. I can't believe we didn't notice!" 

Ian sighed. "Well, we'll just have to let Mom know."

Barley tilted the bottle over his hand, letting a couple of pills fall out. He handed them to Ian, who swallowed them with some water. That medicine wouldn't alleviate the symptoms near as well as the cold-and-flu, but it was better than nothing. Still, he felt his eyelids drooping, and he fought to suppress a yawn. He could also feel his headache settling back in, and he cleared his throat as it started to itch. 

He hated this.

Barley pressed his palm against Ian's forehead, his brows creased in worry. Ian was a bit surprised by this: even in troubling situations his brother normally radiated an aura of confidence. While he was capable of feeling things like concern, it wasn't like Barley to let it show this much--maybe he felt that things could get worse if he did. Barley pulled his hand away, a contemplative look on his face. Then he came to a decision.

"I can be at the pharmacy and back with the medicine you need before you even really notice I'm gone!" 

Ian started to shake his head, but caught himself. "Barley, I don't want you to go through that much trouble."

"Ian, the it's not that far away," Barley reminded him with a laugh. "It would be no trouble at all!" He settled his hand on Ian's shoulder. "I can stop by the supermarket and get a few extra things, too...maybe something you can drink that isn't water?"

Ian paused. He normally didn't mind water all that much, but he'd had quite a bit of it recently, and to be honest he _was_ getting sick of it. "Maybe some Satyrade?"

"Can do!" Barley grinned, "Any flavor in particular?" 

"Lime, if they have it?" 

"Sure!" Barley squeezed Ian's shoulder, then picked Blazey up and made his way to the door. He called back over his shoulder. "Text me if you think of anything else, little bro!" 

"Got it," Ian replied, giving a weak wave. 

His brother shut the door behind him, and Ian scooched until he was laying on his back. Unable to fight his exhaustion anymore, he went to sleep.

* * *

Ian jolted awake.

He blinked several times in confusion, and at first he couldn't understand why he felt so unsettled. He'd been drifting in and out of sleep for a while now, but something felt different about his awakening this time. He sat up in bed and rubbed the crust from his eyes, trying to put his finger on it. It took him a few moments, but it hit him: this was the first time since he'd gotten sick that he'd woken all at once, rather than gradually.

Something had roused him from sleep. But what?

It didn't take him long to find out; no sooner had Ian been preparing to lay back down when he heard a few thumping noises. He looked at his door; it sounded as though it were coming from downstairs. Ian relaxed; Barley must've returned.

After a minute, though, Ian found himself frowning. Barley had left primarily for medicine to treat Ian; wouldn't he have come straight up as soon as he got home?

Ian fidgeted, starting to feel uneasy. It was possible that his brother was simply putting his groceries up...except that Barley had a tendency to show others what he'd bought for them first. Ian could recall many times in the past when Barley had insisted on showing his little brother the ice cream he'd gotten for him, or some other treat that still required refrigeration, despite Laurel's pleas that he put it somewhere cold _immediately._ Ian had asked him about it once--why he couldn't simply _tell_ someone what he'd gotten them. Barley had said that part of the joy that came with getting a gift, or at least a necessity for someone was to see the look on their face when they laid eyes on it.

Ian shook himself a little--he was getting paranoid. But...Barley still hadn't come up.

_Maybe he was up here already,_ Ian reasoned with himself. _Maybe he checked on you while you slept and didn't wanna wake you up._

Even as he thought this, though, he knew that was wrong. Barley wouldn't have cared if Ian was asleep or not: he would've made absolutely certain that his younger brother took the medicine he needed to get better. Barley was disorganized, even a little inattentive in some aspects--but he'd _always_ taken the health of his family completely seriously.

Almost without even thinking about it, Ian pulled his quilt back and swung his legs over the side of the bed, feet resting on the floor. He braced himself, then stood up. The world around him instantly began to spin, and he nearly collapsed back onto the mattress. He reached a hand out to grab the edge of his headboard, steadying himself. He waited, eyes shut and concentrating on taking deep breaths. He was rewarded when the worst of the feeling subsided.

He opened his eyes, taking a moment to look down at the old T-shirt and sweatpants he'd been using as pajamas. He took his staff to use as support, and he made small, shaky steps towards his door. Once he reached it, he mentally congratulated himself for not ending up on the floor. He turned the knob and slowly, quietly pulled the door open.

He was greeted with the sound of rummaging from the first floor. There was also a strange odor in the air, vaguely like smoke. He held his breath, then walked over to the banister. He had just reached the top step when he registered the voice.

"Small pickings: you sure this house was worth the trouble?"

Ian froze. That voice was _not_ his big brother's.

"Quit complaining," a second voice grunted. "There's plenty of stuff here we can pawn. You'd know that if you actually put some effort into _looking."_

"Well, can we hurry it up?" came a third, raspier sounding voice. "The family could be back any time."

Fear settled in Ian's heart as he crouched down to the floor. He leaned forward, allowing himself a peek between the stairs and the ceiling of the first floor.

He could see two of them: a gremlin inspecting the TV in the living room, and a cyclops that was double-checking the curtains on the windows, which Ian could see were now drawn. He could also hear someone walking around in the kitchen, but he couldn't see who or what.

"Both the parents are at work," the voice in the kitchen said dismissively. "And the kids are off to who knows where--nobody will be back for a while."

Ian's eyebrows shot up. They didn't know he was here. His heart was racing.

"Can I reiterate the insanity of busting into a _cop's house?"_ the gremlin said dryly.

Foosteps came down the hallway, and Ian saw an elven man emerge. He couldn't see the man's face, but he could hear the assurance in his voice.

"The last thing anyone would've expected! Now keep an eye out for anything that looks shiny." The man shifted, and Ian couldn't help but notice the bulge under his jacket. One that Colt once told him signified a hidden weapon...most likely a gun.

Ian had seen enough; he leaned against the wall for support as he carefully stood back up. Swallowing hard, he tiptoed back to his room, where he shut his door and locked it. He held his staff in an iron grip with one hand--he used the other to swiftly dial Colt on his cell phone. To his dismay, he could feel his knees trembling; just that little bit of walking he'd done had left him feeling severely drained. He sank down onto his bed.

"Come on, come on," Ian muttered anxiously as he listened to the dial tone. He couldn't take his eyes off the door. Then, the tone stopped.

"Ian?" Colt said.

"Colt!" Ian whispered in relief. Never before had he been so grateful to have a direct line to a police officer.

"Ian, is something wrong? Why are you whispering?"

"There's trouble here, Colt--it isn't good."

"I can't hear you very well, Ian. You're gonna have to speak up a little."

Ian gritted his teeth in frustration, but he complied, raising his voice to a murmur. "Colt, there are criminals in the house, at least one of them might have a gun-- _I need help."_

For a moment, there was silence on the other end, and Ian was afraid his stepfather hadn't heard him. Then, Colt spoke, and his voice was much more serious than Ian had ever heard it.

"Do you know how many?"

"Three--an elf, a gremlin, and a cyclops. All male."

"Where are you--have they hurt you?"

"N-no, they're all downstairs. I locked myself in my room--they don't know I'm here."

"Where's Barley?"

"He's okay, they didn't hurt him, he's at the supermarket," Ian reassured him. "We ran out of the cold-and-flu stuff earlier, so Barley left to get more--he hasn't come back yet."

"Okay..." said Colt. Ian couldn't be sure, but it almost sounded as though the centaur were trying to collect himself. "Okay--I'm on my way. I was sent on my usual route today, so it'll take me about twenty minutes to get there."

Ian grimaced--twenty minutes. That wasn't good. And he knew that Colt couldn't drive home, either, since his vehicle had been damaged in a car chase the week prior.

"Is there anyone who's closer? Any of your coworkers?"

"Well, there was...but they've already taken someone in to the station. It's been a busy morning."

Of course...that was just his luck.

"Do you have anything you can use to defend yourself?"

"My staff," Ian replied. He held the object in question a little closer to him.

"Ian, I can't emphasize this enough: _do not try to face them._ Maybe you could take them with your magic if you were healthier, but you're not--you could get hurt, maybe even killed. Keep your staff with you, but only use it as a last resort. Find a place to hide, and _stay there_ \--I'll be there as fast as I can, and I'm calling for back-up, too!"

At this point, Ian could hear banging and slamming noises coming from beneath the floor. He gulped; they must've started ransacking Barley's room.

Barley.

"Colt, I've gotta hang up."

"No, Ian, don't, stay on the line with--"

"I have to call Barley, or at least text him!" Ian interrupted. "He doesn't know what's going on--if he comes back before they leave--!" He couldn't finish his sentence, but he didn't need to.

"All right, but as soon as you're done, call me back! You don't have to talk to me, but I need to be sure you're okay, got it?"

"Okay." Ian affirmed. "See you soon." He hung up.

His focus returned to his door. While they sounded pretty busy downstairs, he knew it was only a matter of time before the burglars made their way up to where he was. He could keep the door locked, but he seriously doubted they'd be content to just jiggle the knob and move on.

Ian forced his attention back to his phone, where he began to type out a message.

_**Barley** _

_**u need to know that goons r robbing the house** _

Ian moved his thumb over to the "send" button...but he hesitated. Was informing his brother about the ongoing burglary really a good idea? If anything, it might give Barley incentive to race back home and face the criminals head-on. And if any them had a weapon...

Ian gnawed on his lip, trying to think. It wasn't easy with the haze that still clung to the edges of his brain. Then he typed a little more.

**_im ok and colts coming_ **

**_DONT COME HOME_ **

He quickly scanned the message, then pressed "send" with a sigh. It ultimately came back to his initial reasoning: his older brother couldn't be allowed to return without knowing what he was getting into. He was just going to have to hope that Barley would listen to him and stay put. As for Ian himself, though...

He considered his options. Colt had specifically said to stay hidden, and while Ian would've been happy to follow that order, the only three places he could hide in here were either under his bed, in his hope chest, or in his closet. And there was no guarantee that the crooks wouldn't search either spot for something valuable. He could leave the room and try to barricade himself in the attic, but there was no way he could do so without drawing their attention. They'd be on top of him before he could even get halfway up the attic stairs.

He buried his face in his hands and fought the urge to shout. _Why_ did this have to happen _now?_ Now, when he felt like he was being held together by scotch tape? If this had occurred literally any other time, Ian could've used his magic to wipe the floor with them! As it was, he wasn't confident he could maintain the more advanced spells in his current state.

His eyes skittered around the room, trying to find any other possible hiding place, when they landed on his window. He stumbled over to it and looked out.

Maybe Ian could simply run.

He could sneak out through this window--the roof curved at the bottom, so he could slide down and use the curve as a drop-off. Once he reached the ground he could go to one of the neighbors' houses for help, while hoping they weren't all either at school or work. The execution might not be as smooth as it looked, and there was always the chance that at least one of the goons could see him through the living room windows. But it was a chance he had to take: he was a sitting goose here!

He unlatched the window and let the glass swing outward. It was funny: his body felt as weak as it had before this mess came up, but his mind was much clearer than it had been for a while. He chalked it up to adrenaline, but even so, right now Ian felt as though his thought processes could give Blazey's a run for its--

Ian suddenly felt as though the wind had been knocked out of him. "Blazey!" he whispered.

He should've realized sooner that even with the scumbags stomping around downstairs, it was far too quiet. Blazey always became a storm of sound whenever a stranger entered their house for the first time--there was no way she would've allowed these guys to stick around without a fight. Or, if they managed to scare her, Blazey would've been scratching at Ian's door, desperate to be let in and be comforted. Either way, she wouldn't have run off by herself. To register the silence now...

Ian felt a chill race up his spine, and this time his illness wasn't the cause. What if the burglars had hurt her? What if they...

Ian tensed as the sound of footsteps pulled him from his horrific thoughts. They were coming up the stairs. He stiffened.

He was out of time.

Staff still in his hand, Ian swung one leg over the windowsill, then the other. He pushed himself outside, and he dropped.

As he feared, it wasn't the smooth slide he had hoped for: the tops of the mushroom houses were rougher than they appeared, and Ian wasn't able to find anything to grab onto to make himself stop. He did slow a bit as he reached the edge of the roof, which made his fall easier.

"Ooof!" Ian exclaimed as he landed on the grass unceremoniously.

Even though his muscles ached now, he quickly crawled over to the wall beneath the living room window. He waited, trying to catch his breath, but he didn't hear any shouts of alarm, didn't see anyone come out the door. Ian relaxed a little; he hadn't been noticed.

He took a moment to check himself for injuries. He was happy to find that nothing was broken or sprained, but there would definitely be bruises come tomorrow morning.

"So far, so good," Ian mumbled to himself. Blowing out a puff of air, he peeked over the windowsill, hoping to catch a glimpse of their pet dragon. No such luck. On the bright side, though, he didn't see any of the goons, either. They must all be on the second floor by now.

Ian gripped his staff with both hands, conflicted. Getting away right now was the smart thing to do; he knew that. And yet...he couldn't leave without at least knowing Blazey was okay.

"I'm nuts," Ian grunted, forcing himself to his bare feet. "I've lost it!"

Using his staff as a walking stick, he hobbled over to the front door, then tested the knob. It was still locked--the robbers must've entered through the back door. It made sense; they'd be less likely to be seen by any neighbors that might still be around.

Ian groaned at the thought of walking over to the back door; it wasn't even far, but he already felt tired and lightheaded. Then an image of the Quests of Yore guidebook appeared in his mind. His memories conjured up the page he'd read earlier that day: the energy spell.

He remembered that the effects of that spell were temporary, but that was okay. He was just going to go in, find Blazey, and get out.

He held his staff in what he believed was the proper position, then recited as loud as he dared.

_"Vimzesta!"_

Ian gasped as the spell instantly took effect. He could actually _feel_ the energy coursing through his body and mind like a river, so much so that it were as if he'd never known tiredness at all. His dizziness had subsided and he felt stronger now. An amazed smile spread across his face and he could feel laughter bubbling in his chest, but he stopped himself just in time.

He wasn't out of danger yet.

His legs no longer trembling, Ian hurriedly made his way to the other door. As he did so, he noticed that the spell wasn't without its drawbacks. While he felt much more active than he did not even a minute earlier, his head still hurt and his throat was still sore. The magic hadn't made his ailments disappear entirely; it seemed that it simply made them more manageable.

_Once I get better, I'm_ totally _practicing this spell,_ he promised himself.

Once Ian got to the back door, his jaw dropped. From what he could tell this door had been locked as well, but it hadn't mattered...because the lock had been _burned off._ He peeked through the doorway, and sure enough, there was a blowtorch sitting on the countertop. He crept further inside the kitchen, staff held up in front of him protectively.

Pretty much every single cabinet and drawer had been left open, and Ian could only imagine they were doing the same thing throughout the rest of the house. Some utensils, such as the rolling pin, ladles and measuring cups, had been tossed carelessly to the floor. Briefly, Ian could feel his anxiety morph into anger. How dare these people defile his home? How dare they come in here and trash the place as if they owned it, as if they were entitled? How _dare_ they?!

_Focus, Ian. Focus. You can be mad later._

"HEY, I need a little help up here!"

The voice came from upstairs, but it still nearly made Ian jump out of his skin. He saw Gremlin Goon emerge from Barley's room, and he quickly ducked behind the wall.

"Whaddya need me for?!" the man hollered; the sound of his voice was grating, almost as though he had smoked thirty cigarettes in the span of an hour, yet had also swallowed a megaphone.

"Door's locked--" Ian's hold on his staff tightened. "--might be something good in here!"

_Not really,_ Ian thought. _At least, nothing_ you people _would want._ At any rate, he was glad he'd decided to bail out of his room.

"Isn't the boss up there with ya? Get him to help you!"

Ian could take this guy down, right here, right now. He was strong enough, and sharp enough; it would be _easy._ But for the time being, he ruled the option out. If he did so now, the other two crooks would immediately know that something had happened. They would learn of Ian's presence.

"He's scoping the attic!" From the sound of it, it was Cyclops Goon who was trying to get in. "Just get up here and gimme a hand!"

Gremlin Goon let out an explosive sigh, and Ian heard him stomping over to the staircase, grumbling all the while. He waited until the footsteps faded before stepping out of his hiding spot.

Ian would've been lying if he said that he didn't wish he'd taken that opportunity. He wanted more than anything to make these piles of filth regret ever setting foot into his house. But even though he felt reasonably sure that he could take all three of them (though the possibility of a gun still posed a problem), was it really a good idea to try?

His battle with the stone dragon hadn't been a flawless victory--he still felt phantom pains in his leg every once in a while, and it was a miracle that he hadn't been killed by debris. But he'd had a notable advantage in that fight, in that he'd only had one opponent. He could probably face these criminals down as long as they were bunched together, but if even one of them managed to get out of his line of sight, even for a second...

Another thing to consider was that his mother had been a huge help in that last battle. He doubted that he and Barley would've survived without her assistance. But this time, she wasn't here. Nobody was, except for him.

And finally, Ian still didn't know the exact time limit of the energy spell: the book never said, had never even given an estimation. Closing his eyes briefly in resignation, he kept to his original plan, and stepped out of the kitchen.

As he made his way down the hall, he had a clear view of the pile that was accumulating in the middle of the living room; a couple of jars full of cash and change, some jewelry, a few old weapons and figurines that had come from Barley's room, various electronic devices...

_Their spoils,_ Ian thought in disgust. The temptation to rush up the stairs and strike them down where they stood returned, and this time pushing that desire down required a little more effort.

He was so upset, he almost missed the fact that Barley's door was closed. He caught that fact, though, and he felt puzzled. These scumbags hadn't bothered to tidy up after themselves; they clearly didn't care about discretion while they were inside. They hadn't shut any of the other doors. So why shut his brother's?

With a quick glance at the staircase, Ian reached his hand out and opened the door. Barley was never the cleanest person in this household, but his typical messiness paled in comparison to the wreck his room was now. Yet, that wasn't what caught his attention. Rather, it was who they'd left as its sole occupant. Ian looked at Blazey, and he could swear that someone had lit his blood on fire.

There she was, wriggling on the floor, struggling to get free of the duct tape that kept her limbs bound and her jaw shut. She whimpered pitifully when she saw him, her eyes huge and fearful. Ian wasted no time in hurrying over and pulling her into his arms.

"Oh, Blazey, what did they do to you?" Ian murmured in distress. Blazey whimpered louder in response, her tail thrashing. Ian sighed regretfully.

"Once we get far enough away, I'll get you out of all that--I promise." As much as it pained him, he couldn't do so now; he couldn't take the chance that she'd erupt into yips and barks and bring the criminals' attention down on them, nor could he risk her running straight up to them for the sake of retribution.

Not that he could blame her: he was livid himself. Even after the circumstances that had brought Blazey to them, Ian still couldn't believe that anybody could be so cruel to an animal.

He took a deep breath to settle his temper, then picked Blazey up with one arm, the other still carrying his staff. He was about to enter the kitchen to leave when something caught his eye. He looked, hoping against hope that he was mistaken in what he saw, but he wasn't. There, on the edge of the coffee table with several other things the crooks had collected, was a tiny blue box.

On the surface, that box wasn't anything remarkable; it was faded and clearly old, the trinket it originally contained long gone. But now, inside were two golden rings...

...his parents' wedding rings.

There had been so many nights in the past, especially in Ian's early childhood, when Laurel would take out that box and hold the rings during times of trouble. He could even remember the first time she had allowed him to hold his father's ring, a moment that had left him both melancholy and awed.

Those rings meant the world to her, to all of them--he couldn't let those pigs take them!

He strode toward the pile in determination, setting Blazey down momentarily to free his hand. She whined in protest, and in turn Ian gave her a comforting "shh". His fingers closed around the little box, and he shoved it into his pocket. He smiled in satisfaction.

"BOYS, WE GOT COMPANY DOWN HERE!"

Ian's heart leapt into his throat, and he whirled to see Gremlin Goon near the top of the stairs, yelling for his partners. Without even thinking, Ian aimed his staff.

_"Boombastia!"_

He didn't stick around to see if the spell had hit its mark; he scooped Blazey up and ran for the door.

"Don't let him get away!"

Ian glimpsed behind him to see how close they were getting--an action that proved to be a huge mistake. He felt his foot land on something that wasn't tile, and the rolling pin sent him completely off balance. Ian landed in a heap on the kitchen floor, both Blazey and his staff flying from his grasp. His cheek was scraped from the impact, but he had no time to dwell on it--breath speeding up in panic, he stretched his hand for the staff. Just as it was within his reach, a three-fingered hand grabbed his ankle and tugged him back.

"I got him!" the cyclops called triumphantly.

"No!" Ian cried as he reached futilely for his only means of defense. "Let go of me!" He kicked, trying to get free. In response, Cyclops Goon grabbed his other leg and pulled him even further from the door. Ian's hands flailed, trying to find something to hang on to, but there was nothing.

The cyclops reached forward and grabbed a fistful of Ian's hair, making the young elf shriek in pain. The hold didn't lighten up; if anything, it intensified, dragging Ian along the floor by his head. His hands flew to the man's wrist and his uncoordinated legs attempted to keep up, if only so that his hair wouldn't be ripped out completely. The pain was so much worse than he could've imagined, causing his once-minor headache to grow into a full-blown migraine. Suddenly, blessedly, the cyclops let go, and Ian slumped to the carpet, seeing stars.

He blinked several times in an attempt to clear his vision. Once it did, he saw that he was in the dining room, with both Elf Goon and Gremlin Goon standing there--the former sneering, the latter glaring. Probably not surprising; Ian could see black marks on his jacket from where his fireworks spell had grazed him. The gremlin stalked over to him.

"Little _brat!"_ he hissed, and swung his claws out.

Ian cried out as they raked across his already-injured cheek. He clutched it with one hand, and his fingertips came away sticky and red. He could already feel blood trickling from the cuts to his jawline. He watched as a few droplets of it fell onto the carpet.

What was it about his face that made creatures smaller than him want to scratch it?!

"Caught an intruder, I see," Elf Goon said smugly, and Ian's eyes widened in outrage.

_"I'm_ the intruder?!" he snapped. He shook slightly (both from fear and fury) as he worked his way to his knees. "You come into _my_ house and wreck everything in sight, and you have the _nerve_ to--" He was silenced when the older elf slapped him across his face.

Gremlin Goon and Cyclops Goon laughed in cruel delight, and the next thing Ian knew hands were grabbing him from behind and hoisting him to his feet. Cyclops Goon wrapped his arms tightly around Ian's slender form, pinning the boy to his chest. Somewhere in the background, Ian could hear Blazey growling furiously. He rued that he didn't release her when he had the chance.

"Seriously, though," Gremlin Goon said to Elf Goon. "You could've told us we were breaking into the place that had that magic freak."

Ian's heart stung at those hateful words. He squirmed, trying to loosen Cyclops Goon's grip on him. He knew he could get out of this hold--hadn't he done so with Barley in the past?

"A slight miscalculation on my part," the elven man admitted with a frown. "But one that can be rectified."

He reached into his jacket and pulled out a pistol. Ian's movements stopped and his heart stuttered as the man pointed the weapon at him.

"Whoa," Cyclops Goon spoke. "I don't mind beating up snot-nosed kids who should know their place, but I don't know how I feel about killing them. Can't we just tape him up and toss him into one of the rooms down here, maybe gag him while we're at it?"

Ian's stomach churned at the thought of being completely immobilized, unable to move or speak. Elf Goon shook his head.

"The kid's seen our faces--he can identify us to any cop who asks. We can't let him." Elf Goon stepped close to Ian, causing the boy to freeze up. When he got close enough, the man reached into Ian's pocket.

"No, _give that back!"_ Ian snarled as the man removed the rings and tossed the box nonchalantly to the gremlin. Catching it in one hand, Gremlin Goon waved it tauntingly. Ian gritted his teeth, enraged.

"Since when do you care about kids, anyway?" Gremlin Goon asked skeptically.

"I don't," Cyclops Goon answered bluntly. "But I don't wanna get my hands dirty."

Elf Goon ignored him and back up, raising his gun again.

"Hey, at least wait until I'm not holding him anymore!" exclaimed Cyclops Goon.

Ian knew he only had seconds to act. "I already called my stepfather," he blurted out. "He's on his way, and he's bringing his friends--he's probably almost here by now. Killing me won't help you!" He actually didn't know if this was the case--Ian had lost track of time since he'd called Colt, so he had no idea if twenty minutes had passed or not. He wasn't going to say that to these guys, though.

"What?!" the cyclops man shouted.

"Oh, that's just _perfect!"_ said the gremlin.

A look of wrath crossed the elven man's face, and Ian braced himself, fully expecting to be struck again, or even shot. Then the expression melted away, and his eyes narrowed. He turned to Gremlin Goon.

"You still got the duct tape." It wasn't a question.

"I left it upstairs."

The man exhaled through his nose. "Go get it."

The smaller crook headed for the stairs.

"What're you gonna do to me?" Ian asked in apprehension.

Elf Goon gave him a dark smile. "We're gonna take you on a field trip, kid." He turned his attention from Ian to the cyclops. "We'll tie him up and throw him in the trunk--he might be useful as insurance..."

_A hostage,_ Ian mentally translated.

"...at least until we get somewhere quiet."

Ian was all too aware of the actual meaning behind that statement, and he shivered. He couldn't go--if they managed to escape with him, it would all be over. He doubted anyone would be able to find him again. Not alive, at least.

It was the thought of his friends and family, and especially Barley, grieving over his dead body that gave him the courage to go through with the plan he'd been scrambling to put together in the last few minutes.

_It's now or never!_

Ian fixed his gaze on a random spot over Elf Goon's shoulder...and gave a silent apology to his throat for what he was about to do. "COLT, I'M RIGHT HERE!" he screamed.

Alarm flashed in the man's eyes and he spun his head around to look towards the door. Ian took the moment and ran with it; he shifted until his feet were in the proper position, and he grabbed the bewildered cyclops and flipped him over, exactly as his mother had taught him. The cyclops hit the elf, sending them both crashing to the floor.

Ian bolted for the kitchen. He could hear them cursing and thrashing behind him, and he knew they'd be back on their feet in just a moment.

He was amazed to find that Blazey had managed to wrestle her back legs out of the tape that had constricted them, leaving her to half-crawl around the floor. She had managed to make her way over to his staff, and Ian realized she must've been attempting to get it back to him before he could be harmed any further.

"You're the best girl," Ian panted as he swooped down and grabbed it. He couldn't even describe the sheer relief that flooded through him at having the object back in his hands. However, he couldn't afford to bask in feeling right now.

He spun around just as the two burglars entered the kitchen, the elf man's gun up and ready to fire.

_"Aloft Elevar!"_

The gun was engulfed in blue light, and Ian reveled in the look of bafflement on the crooks' faces. He swung his staff, and in doing so wrenched the weapon out of Elf Goon's hand, sending it flying through the kitchen window (inwardly he cringed as the glass shattered). He ignored the temptation to break out something powerful like Arcane Lightning. The house may have been a mess already, but he didn't want to outright _destroy_ it.

_Pretty sure Mom's already gonna kill me for breaking the window and banister!_

The man grabbed a vase off the bar (one that Laurel had bought recently) and threw it at Ian's head.

_Think fast!_ Barley's voice echoed in Ian's head.

_"Aloft Elevar!"_

He caught the vase just before it could hit him, but he realized too late that that was what Elf Goon had been counting on. At the same instant, the man had charged the young wizard, tackling him and forcing him into the corner. Pain erupted across Ian's back as he came into contact with the countertop, and he lost his footing and slid to the floor. The man's hands wrapped around his staff and attempted to pull it away. Ian's grip tightened and he held on for dear life, _refusing_ to lose it a second time.

"A little help would be nice!" Elf Goon hollered--Ian hadn't even noticed that the cyclops wasn't there anymore.

There were plenty of spells he could use right now, if only he could get his staff into the proper stance! Wait--there was always the strength spell. That would be more than enough to force the villain away.

_To increase strength, lose the fears that weigh you down,_ Ian recited to himself. His terror hadn't evaporated in the slightest, but there was still plenty of anger inside him, too, so he tried to focus on that. He opened his mouth.

_"Might Mag--"_

He was cut off when his staff was suddenly shoved against his neck, pinning his head against the cabinets. Ian gagged, trying to relieve the pressure, but he couldn't. It seemed that Elf Goon had caught onto the fact that his spells had to be said verbally in order to work, and he clearly wasn't going to give Ian another chance to do so.

Choking, Ian kicked his legs, yet mentally he was paralyzed by indecision. If he tried to force the staff away, Elf Goon could take it from him, leaving him utterly defenseless. If he didn't, though, he'd die from oxygen deprivation instead. Either way, he'd be finished.

"Come _on,_ already!" Elf Goon shouted.

Through squinted eyes, Ian saw movement, and he realized where Cyclops Goon had gone: to get another weapon. He was there, where the kitchen met the hallway, holding Barley's antique mace. Ian had no idea if that thing had been properly maintained since it had been forged centuries ago, but he had no desire to find out. It certainly proved that Cyclops Goon had gotten over his hesitance of killing a kid rather quickly.

The cyclops man stalked towards them, adjusting his hold on the weapon, and Ian acted on instinct. Drawing his leg back as much as he could, he kicked the elf man's groin. It did the trick--the man's hands slipped from the staff and he curled up on the floor, uttering a wheezing moan.

Ian coughed as the cyclops rushed closer, raising the mace up over his head. He did his best to draw in a huge breath of air, and he thrust his staff out in front of him and chanted as clearly as his damaged throat would allow:

_"Bastion Fortigar!"_

A milky-white veil appeared around him just as Cyclops Goon brought the mace down, and the weapon slammed into it, not even close to breaking it. A flabbergasted look appeared on his face before he swung the mace again, hitting the force field and getting the exact same results. Ian smirked.

The shield spell was another one that he had only recently begun experimenting with--in fact, he'd only used it successfully once before, which was a whole other story. He'd been working on trying to master it when he ended up sick, which in turn had halted his practice sessions. He just needed to remember the decree.

_An unblinking stare is required if a strong barrier is desired._

And Ian did just that: he kept his eyes trained on the cyclops as he continued to hit the shield with his mace, obviously hoping to wear it down but having no luck whatsoever. Ian found himself sweating after several seconds of this. Cyclops Goon stopped to catch his breath. Then he brought the mace down once more, and this time he was putting all of his strength on it, attempting to force it through the barrier. As he struggled to maintain the spell, Ian made another mistake.

The gremlin crook appeared in the threshold of the kitchen, gaping in disbelief at the scene before him. In his hand was the blue box, and Ian's eyes flickered to it. It was merely a reflex, but it was enough to break his concentration, and the force field vanished. Ian let out a terrified scream and squeezed his eyes shut as the mace buried itself into the cabinet right next to his head. He heard the gremlin whoop.

"Didja get him?!"

Hearing that tone of excitement in the criminal's voice, hit with the sudden reminder that he was surrounded by men who wanted him dead, that none of the people who cared about him and cherished his life were present...it was almost enough to break Ian.

Then he heard Cyclops Goon howl, and Ian's eyes snapped back open. He watched in amazement as Blazey bit down on the man's arm, smacking his face with her tail simultaneously. She had finally broken free of her restraints, and she had come after the perpetrator with a vengeance.

"Forget this!" Cyclops Goon shouted, and he wrenched the dragon off of him and threw her against the wall.

"Blazey!" Ian cried as she fell to the floor. He needn't have been concerned, though; she scrambled back to her feet and shook herself, slightly dazed but otherwise unharmed.

The cyclops looked at her, then at Ian. He ran through the back door and out of sight. With a snarl, Blazey chased after him. Ian was about to call her back when Gremlin Goon turned on his heel and raced down the hall. A mental image of his mother and father's wedding rings flashed in Ian's head, and he saw red.

_Oh, no, you_ don't.

Ian jumped to his feet and rushed down the hall after him. Just as Gremlin Goon reached the front door, Ian aimed his staff.

_"Aloft Elevar!"_

The criminal was lifted off the floor, his legs kicking in the air desperately, his hands trying to reach the doorknob. Ian held him there as he marched closer to him. Waving the end of his staff, he turned Gremlin Goon around to face him. He held his free hand out, a scowl on his face.

"Give it here... _now."_ His voice made it clear that he would not take no for an answer.

Eyes wide in fear, the gremlin nodded wordlessly and placed the box in Ian's hand. Ian grasped it tightly, relieved that his parents' most precious treasures were secure.

"So, uh...will you let me go now?" Gremlin Goon asked with a nervous laugh. "It was nothing personal, kid--I just needed to make a little extra cash!"

"Oh, please," Ian refuted scornfully. He returned the rings to his pocket and then massaged his temple. "You cut my cheek open--that feels pretty personal to me."

"Well, I mean, uh..." the gremlin babbled. "I was just--just having a hot-blooded moment, you know? I have them, you've probably had them, we all get that way every now and then--"

Ian's head was pounding too much for him to care about the crook's flimsy excuses. Truthfully he _didn't_ want to let him go--he wanted all of these villains to face justice for what they did here. But the fact was, he didn't have a way to keep them confined indefinitely. He recalled glimpsing a page that detailed the Stun Spell, but he hadn't paid any real attention to it, having decided to master some of the simpler spells first. Now he wished he'd made a different choice.

Letting out a disgusted sigh, he cancelled the spell, and Gremlin Goon landed on the floor.

"Get out," Ian ordered. "Never come back here, and _never_ break into someone else's house again...assuming that the cops won't catch you anyway."

Gremlin Goon didn't need to be told twice. He unlocked the front door and wrenched it open, running out onto the sidewalk without a second glance.

The house felt so still now, and Ian couldn't help but find peace in the silence. Just...letting himself breathe. He felt the corners of his lips turn up, and the laugh he gave was small, yet joyful.

The moment was crushed when he happened to turn his head away from the door, and gasped in horror at the sight of Elf Goon standing mere inches from him, seconds away from bringing down the cutting knife that was clutched tightly in his hand. Adrenaline fuelled him as he swung his staff just in time, batting the blade out of the villain's hand just as he was about to drive it into Ian's heart. He quickly swung the staff the other way, the tip of it catching the side of Elf Goon's head. The man stumbled backwards, hand pressed to the bruise that was already forming. He dropped his hand, and the look in his eyes was borderline manic.

"Why won't you just _die_ already?!" The man's face twisted into an expression of malice, looking nothing like the confident, self-assured individual he seemed to be earlier. It was clear now that that display had been nothing more than a facade, and now Ian was looking at what he truly was: a monster.

Ian swallowed and raised his staff above his head, ready to be _done_ with all of this.

Then, out of nowhere, he was hit by an avalanche of pure _exhaustion_. His arms dropped to his sides as his vision doubled, then cleared, then doubled again. His head fell into his hand as he willed it to stop, as he internally begged the world to stop quaking. But his body would no longer listen to him. He began to shake from head to toe, and it felt as though his bones had become coated in a layer of frost. He felt his strength draining. Words floated to the forefront of his mind:

_Although this Spell will provide a surge of energy, it is only temporary. It may wear off in perilous situations!_

Terror seized Ian as he understood what was happening. His energy was rapidly depleted, and the full effects of his fever had returned.

Ahead of him Elf Goon tilted his head, a confused frown on his face...but sure enough, Ian could see the man putting the pieces together, and a grin of sadistic glee appeared. He began to walk toward him slowly, as though he saw no more reason to hurry, and Ian turned to run. However, his legs couldn't support him anymore, and he collapsed onto his knees. Instead he tried to crawl to the open doorway, his breaths coming out in ragged bursts.

A hand fell on the back of Ian's neck and pushed down, forcing him to the floor. He still held his staff and he attempted to aim it, but it was ripped away from him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the criminal toss the staff to the side of the room. At that moment, Ian knew his luck had finally run out.

_I want my brother,_ he found himself thinking. The thought was so childish, yet so strong in its yearning, that it nearly brought him to tears.

"Looks like the fight's gone out of you, wizard boy," the man said evilly.

Not even giving Ian a chance to respond, he grabbed the boy by the back of his shirt and forced him onto his feet. Then Ian was thrown across the room, landing on his back. The man approached him, and Ian clumsily crawled backwards into the dining room, clinging to the slim hope that he could make it to the back door. But he was too slow, and Elf Goon stomped a foot down on his stomach.

Ian's jaws parted in a silent cry as he momentarily lost the ability to breathe. He turned onto his side, pulling his knees up and curling his arms around his stomach. He fought to take in just one lungful of air. Thankfully, he managed...just as the older elf lowered himself down beside him. He let out a low chuckle at the sight of the sick, injured boy.

"Now, where were we?" he asked with a smirk. He grasped Ian's jaw, turning it to face him.

"Get away from me," Ian croaked. He tried to push the burglar's hand away, but it were as though only a single sliver of muscle still existed in each of his arms and legs. "Don't touch me!"

The man acted as though he hadn't heard him. He used his other hand to push the young wizard onto his back. A smile split his face, showing his yellowed teeth. "Ah, yes...I remember now."

His hand drifted from Ian's face to his neck, where his fingers closed in. Fear surged through Ian as he gripped the man's wrist and arm, his legs struggling to find purchase, leverage, _anything._ He gasped and wheezed, trying to remove the hand that kept him from breathing.

"So where's your police help, huh? Where are they?"

_"Stop..."_ Ian barely managed to whisper.

"Aww, you don't sound good, wizard boy," the monster said in mock sympathy.

He pressed down on Ian's mouth with his free hand, and the boy's panic doubled. He'd been able to draw in just a tiny bit of air with each breath before, but now there was nothing. He jerked and twisted, desperate to dislodge the man's hold on him. But...he was too weak. The final nail in his coffin was the man settling a knee on his still-aching stomach.

_Barley, I'm sorry...I'm sorry I called you a screw-up before._ I _was the one who always screwed up. I couldn't even protect our home..._

Ian had heard of the effects of strangulation, but the books, the medical websites, the professionals...they had all understated how truly _agonizing_ it was to experience. His muscles felt like they were spasming, his lungs were screaming for oxygen that was now absent. Pressure was building in his skull, as though his brain were about to explode. Numbness was beginning to spread through his fingers and toes. He could hear his heart beating in his ears, could feel it speeding up--probably to compensate for the fact that the rest of his body was gradually shutting down. And blackness was beginning to creep in from the edges of his vision.

_This is it,_ he realized through the fog that was filling his head. _I'm going to_ die.

He shut his eyes...he didn't want the monster's deranged face to be the last thing he ever saw. He forced himself to bring up memories of his life, his family. Things that made him happy, even if there had been missteps here and there.

"I would've killed you quickly--but no, you just _had_ to put up a fight. You brought this on yourself!"

His muffled cries devolved to whimpers.

"Stop fighting, kid."

His movements slowed.

_"Just...die..."_

Sound grew muted.

_Dad...I'll see you soon..._

But it turned out that he wouldn't...because a miracle happened.

_"GET OFF OF HIM!"_

Like magic, the weight on his stomach, the hands on his throat and mouth...it all disappeared. Ian exploded into violent coughs and hacks, his lungs drawing in as much air as they could only to lose it just as quickly. His chest felt like it was burning, and tears of pain leaked from the corners of his eyes. He wanted so badly to shift into the fetal position...but his body was spent.

He was only barely aware of the crashes and screams that emanated from somewhere else. He could scarcely believe the noises that were coming from _him_ \--he sounded like a malfunctioning vacuum cleaner.

_"Ian!"_

He didn't recognize the voice at first; it sounded as though it were coming from the other end of a long tunnel. He felt a hand rest on his sholder, then another on his unscratched cheek, and he was so afraid.

"No..." he whimpered, the effort causing him to cough some more. His fingers curled into the carpet beneath him.

_"No, hey, it's okay, it's me. It's me..."_

Ian waited, but the hands didn't move from where they were, didn't try to ensnare his neck in cruel fingers. Another detail he noticed was how huge they were--bigger than the ones that had pulled him by the hair, or the ones that had spilled his blood. Bigger than the ones that had fought so hard to take his life.

Hope began to bloom in his heart. He gathered his courage...and opened his eyes.

The blackness that had previously been there had been replaced by splotches of color that grew, shrunk and danced, so he still couldn't see clearly yet. Even so, he could sense someone looking down at his limp form.

_"Hey. There you are..."_

The voice was soft and gentle, yet at the same time so full of sorrow and fear. Blinking, Ian summoned the strength to move one of his small hands up to the much bigger one that cradled his face. His fingers bumped into something. He ran them over what felt like leather, then what he realized was a spike, then another, then a third...and tears of joy trailed into his hairline as he just _knew._

"Barley..." he whispered, his fingers tightening on the back of his brother's hand.

"The one and only," Barley responded with a choked laugh. His voice sounded closer and clearer than before. The world was coming back to Ian, bit by bit.

His eyesight was improving as well--the random bright spots of color had faded away, leaving Ian with the sensation of viewing his surroundings through a cloud of smoke. Barley's face was blurred and somewhat indistinct, along with everything else, so his vision still wasn't great...but it was better than it was.

Though his coughing had settled down for the most part, Ian was still breathing heavily, his lips parted. Air came a little more easily, but inhaling and exhaling...it still felt more difficult than it should have. The act of his chest rising and falling with each breath was painful. He couldn't stop wheezing, either. And while his throat had been sore and itchy prior to all of this, now it was positively mangled.

He was distracted from his suffering by the sound of hoofs galloping furiously from somewhere outside.

"Ian! Barley!" a familiar voice called frantically.

"In here!" Barley called back. Ian cringed from the leap in volume, and Barley took his little brother's hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. "Sorry," he said softly. Ian wanted to reply, but he didn't feel up to it.

He didn't feel up to much of anything right now.

Hoofsteps approached the brothers, along with the sound of panting. "What happened to you two?" Colt asked in horror.

_"They_ happened," Barley spat. Ian felt a chill at his wrathful tone. "I chased one of them off just now, out through the front door and towards the intersection. If you hurry, you can catch him."

There was a beat. Then:

"Okay--my friends are right behind me and I already called an ambulance, too...just in case. Stay with your brother until they get here."

"Got it," Barley said, his voice sounding oddly strained. Colt ran out of the house, and once again the brothers were alone.

Barley sucked in a shaky breath and let it out. "Okay, Ian, let's get you somewhere more comfortable."

Ian felt his brother's hands slide under his back and knees, and he was being lifted. He moaned as he was hit by a wave of vertigo.

"I know, buddy, I know it hurts. I'm just gonna set you on the couch here..."

As Ian registered the fact that Barley's voice was cracking, he was deposited on worn, yet soft cushions. His eyebrows creased in distress as his surroundings continued to dip and swirl, despite the fact that he was no longer moving. He just wanted it all to _stop._

Barley set his hand on top of Ian's head for just a moment. "Just stay here, okay? I'll be back before you can even blink!"

Barley left his side, and Ian wanted to reach out and grab his arm, wanted to beg him to stay. Unfortunately he was in too much pain to do either. Besides, he found that he wasn't capable of keeping his eyes open for any longer than a minute or two at a time...and having them shut brought a surreal sense of tranquility.

No sooner was he beginning to sink into sleep when he felt something settle on his neck and he flinched violently.

"No, it's all right, it's just something to make your throat feel better!" Barley promised. "No one else is gonna hurt you, okay? I'm here, now. _I'm right here."_

Barley was telling the truth--the weight on Ian's neck turned out to be a cool, damp washcloth, and he sighed in relief from how soothing it felt. He willed his heart to slow down as another cloth was put on his forehead. As Barley spread a blanket over him, which helped him feel a little warmer, they both heard sirens in the distance.

"Help is coming," Barley told his brother reassuringly.

Ian felt the cushions dip as Barley sat down on the edge. He forced his heavy eyelids back open to see the older boy holding a rag in his hand.

"I need you to hold still for just a minute, okay?"

Ian did as he was told, though it wasn't like he was in any condition to do otherwise. Barley lowered the rag to his cheek. At first Ian couldn't figure out why, until he processed the stinging. Barley was lightly scrubbing the blood off.

"Just gonna get you cleaned up a little..." he muttered.

Since the moment his senses had partially returned to him, Ian had detected an undercurrent in every word Barley said to him, an emotion that the younger boy couldn't name. For some reason, it tugged at his heart, filling him with sadness. But he didn't know what he could do to fix it. How could he, when he couldn't even fix himself?

Barley pulled the rag away, and Ian tried not to focus on the red that now stained part of it. Barley seemed to be doing the same thing, since he wouldn't look at it directly. Instead he folded it back and tilted his younger brother's face slightly. Ian briefly closed his eyes again as Barley wiped the tear tracts away. The sirens grew louder.

With a weary sigh, Barley finished his task and let the rag drop. He slid off the couch and kneeled next to it. He pressed the back of his fingers to Ian's temple. "You're burning up," he noted grimly.

Was he? Ian felt cold.

"Are you hurt anywhere else?" Barley quietly asked.

Ian answered with a short, hollow laugh, then winced. At this point, pain encompassed every part of him--he could no longer narrow it to a specific area. A look of comprehension appeared on Barley's face, and he shook his head.

"Right--stupid question. Sorry."

There was that emotion again, and Ian finally understood what it was...

Guilt.

He forced his arm to move, squirming so that he could pull it out from under his blanket.

"Whoa, hey--" Barley started.

Ian pulled his hand free, then let it drop bonelessly onto Barley's arm. "Barley, I..." he attempted to say, but his throat still felt too tight. He drew in a breath and tried again. "...you...this isn't..."

Barley clutched Ian's fingers. "Ian, don't try to talk--you've had a pretty brutal day. I don't think your throat can take any more punishment."

Ian shook his head, not caring about his migraine. He was determined to say what was on his mind. He just wished that speaking--no, _thinking_ \--wasn't so hard.

"This...it's... _it's not your fault."_

He saw Barley's mouth hang open, probably to contradict what he said, but finally getting those words out had taken more strength than Ian thought it would. His breathing became more labored, and a few more coughs escaped him. Barley enfolded Ian's hand in both of his, his lips quivering.

As much as he didn't want to acknowledge it, Ian could feel his awareness beginning to slip away from him. Sleep--or maybe unconsciousness--was calling to him, and it was getting difficult to resist its lure. In an effort to stay awake, he squeezed Barley's fingers, and his older brother copied the gesture. Barley was an anchor, keeping Ian tethered to the waking world.

The sirens had reached a shrill crescendo, and Ian could hear vehicles pulling up outside. He shuddered. He knew that these were people who would fix the situation, but all he could think about was that even more strangers were going to come inside any moment.

And he was still so tired.

Ian made his dreary eyes gaze right into Barley's alert ones. "Don't...don't let me go," he whispered pleadingly.

Even he wasn't quite sure what he meant--did he mean that literally, or did he mean, "don't let me lose myself"? Both, perhaps. Either way, Barley continued to hold Ian's hand, using his other one to slowly rub Ian's arm.

"I won't," he vowed, just as the first police officer entered.

* * *

Ian lost track of everything that happened next; later he would only be able to recall bits of pieces of the cops', and shortly after the paramedics' arrival. These were the things he could remember:

He had been awake for the majority of it, barely. Any time he had seemed ready to surrender to the darkness lurking at the edge of his consciousness, Barley would gently shake his shoulder, bringing him back to himself. Ian was grateful for this. Even though he wanted more than anything to sleep off this _horrible_ day...he was paranoid that if he did, he would never wake up.

At some point while the police had been questioning Barley about the events that had transpired, Blazey had returned. Ian had heard snarling and hissing followed by alarmed shouts in the background before the sound of Barley's voice had calmed the dragon down. Almost as though she had teleported, Blazey was right there, sniffing at his face and nuzzling it.

_I'm so glad you're okay,_ he'd thought blearily. He wished he'd been able to say that out loud, but his vocal cords had still felt as though they were made of tissue paper, ready to rip open at the slightest motion.

Colt had come back as well. Ian could hear him speaking in a low voice to Barley, and then his coworkers. He thought that his stepfather had walked up to the couch, talking to him as well, but he had appeared and disappeared so quickly, so frequently, that Ian wondered if he'd imagined it.

For him, the scariest part had been when the paramedics showed up. He could sense them drawing close to him, and Barley had shifted over to allow their examination. Ian had tightened his grip, afraid that his brother was going to leave him, but he hadn't. Throughout the whole ordeal, Barley had kept his word and had not let go of Ian's hand. This had given him a sense of security as they'd removed his blanket, methodically prodding different parts of his limbs and ribs. Checking for broken bones, maybe?

As they'd shifted their focus to his head, Ian could hear Barley murmuring softly to him. But now his older brother's words were like water: slipping through his fingers, impossible to hold on to. It didn't matter, though--his voice alone was a lifeline for Ian, and he'd clung to it as one of the medics took the washcloth away, their fingers inspecting his neck. It hadn't hurt, but it still hadn't done his frayed nerves any favors. He'd whined as someone had pried open his eyelids, shining a bright light in first one eye, then the other. Thankfully, that had only lasted a few seconds. As they'd pulled away, Ian had turned his head, blinking repeatedly. The second washcloth slipped off. Rather than put it back, Barley rested his forehead on Ian's.

He must've dozed off afterwards: the next thing he knew Barley's hand had disappeared, and he was being moved. He gasped, wanting to start thrashing, when he was laid back down on a stretcher. Barley's face reappeared, hovering anxiously over Ian's.

"I'm still here," he'd said. At least, Ian _thought_ that was what he'd said. He wasn't sure.

All he knew was that he'd been happy, _so happy_ not to be alone. That he was with someone who loved him unconditionally.

As the paramedics had adjusted his position on the thin padding, something dug uncomfortably into his thigh. His brows furrowed--it had felt different from the pain that radiated from everywhere else. Just as they'd pulled a sheet up to his waist, it came to him, lighting his mind like neon. Out of all his scattered memories, this one was the clearest.

"Barley," he'd croaked as he started to move. "Barley!"

"What? What is it?!" Barley asked in bewilderment.

Ian could feel the paramedics' hands on his shoulders, could hear them telling him not to speak or move, but he didn't listen--he couldn't. This was too important.

Grunting in concentration, Ian shoved his hand into his pocket and retrieved the box. He panted from the exertion as he'd held the object out to Barley. His brother's breath hitched as he recognized it, and the sight of it seemed to paralyze him at first. Then he reached a trembling hand out and took it, placing it in a pocket on the inside of his vest.

There was no one Ian trusted more to keep it safe.

Of course, right after that the haze had moved back in. Before he knew it, fresh air embraced him and the sunlight had made his eyes water and forced them shut. Almost an instant later it was replaced by darkness. He heard Barley clamboring up beside him as the ambulance doors shut. Ian's face scrunched up as something was placed over his nose and mouth. Cool air immediately rushed into his throbbing lungs, and he breathed it in greedily.

He felt weaker than a newborn. The thought of slumber was more powerful than ever, and he was certain that the reawakening of the ambulance siren was the only thing that kept it at bay. At some point--he didn't know when--Barley had taken Ian's hand back into his own, his thumb moving back and forth across it.

When the ambulance slowed and the siren mercifully shut off, Ian had finally had enough. His whole body feeling like it was weighed down by cement, his mind in tatters, Ian had given in to sleep, letting the world fade away.

* * *

The first thing he heard was the sound of rain pattering against the window, occasionally interspersed by faint thunder. It was comforting to Ian, and in the depths of his drowsiness he hoped it was the weekend: this would be a perfect morning to sleep in.

He didn't know how long he laid there listening to the weather outside, but after a while he became aware that something felt off about the setting. It probably shouldn't have taken him so long to figure out what it was, but his first clue ended up being his blanket. His fingertips twitched where they were laying on it...it felt a little too thin and scratchy to be his quilt.

Speaking of his fingers, there was something attached to one of them, his index finger. Something solid and hard. There was something in his nostrils as well, making them itch. And something seemed to be plastered to his cheek.

And finally, there was a weird scent in the air, something that smelled unpleasant and sharp. Had his mother been in here? Had she sprayed something chemical in order to clean up, like bleach or Simple Emerald? No...she would've waited for him to be out of the room, wouldn't she? Ian wrinkled his nose, trying to think, until he realized the answer.

Antiseptic.

His comfort vanished and dread moved in to take its place. Ian gulped and opened his eyes, and it took a few attempts before he could get them to stay open.

He was in a hospital room. The main light was off, but a lamp on a small table in the corner had been switched on, filling the room with a soft, golden glow. The curtains were partially open, enough that Ian could see that it was night out. He was confused--one of his last memories was being under the midday sun. How long had he been asleep?

Ian was laying in a bed--the object on his finger was a clip that connected him to a heart rate monitor. That wasn't the only unwelcome surprise, either. He was also hooked up to an IV line in the crook of his elbow. And he was wearing a nasal cannula; he could feel it just under his nose, snaking up either side of his face and behind his ears, all the way down to his chin.

A rustling sound caught his attention. His gaze shifted to the side, and his eyes widened. There, sitting in a chair next to his bed and reading a book, was his mother.

"Mom," he said, and his voice sounded like someone had taken a cheese grater to it. He could hardly recognize it as his own, but Laurel still whipped her head around at the sound of it. She broke into a huge smile.

"Ian," she breathed, setting her book down and leaning closer to him. She stroked his hair and he leaned into her touch. Words couldn't express how wonderful it was to have her here. "Welcome back, baby."

"Where have I been...?" he asked her. Now that she was looking directly at him, Ian could see the bags under her eyes. Her hair looked tussled and messy, a stark contrast from how clean and styled it usually was. She looked exhausted.

Her smile faltered. She lowered her fingers from his head to lace them with his. "You've been in and out," she finally answered him. "You were brought in two days ago. This isn't the first time you've been awake, but...it's the first time you've been lucid."

Ian frowned. He'd been awake before? He had no recollection of it. None, except...

His heart stuttered. His memories of the events that had put him here...they'd been simmering at the back of his mind, and they were beginning to come to the forefront. He didn't want to acknowledge them, but...he had to know.

"I got hurt," he stated flatly. "How bad was it?"

Laurel hesitated. Then she sighed. "They had you on a ventilator at first...one of those oxygen masks."

He knew what she was talking about. He remembered when he'd been a little boy, and he'd first seen pictures of masks of all shapes and sizes: oddly shaped in order to fit over noses of both trolls and some elves (gigantic in the case of the trolls), oval-shaped for goblins, practically microscopic for sprites...he'd found them all to be funny-looking. After he'd seen a picture of someone having to wear one, though, it wasn't so amusing anymore.

"Your breathing's gotten better, though," Laurel continued. "They took it off not too long ago. Though your throat will probably feel tender for a little while."

He nodded his head. It did feel leagues better than before, but his voice still sounded weak to him. He didn't think he could speak any louder than just above a whisper. His neck still felt a bit swollen, too. She must've seen the discomfort on his face, because she picked a paper cup off of the table next to his bed and offered it to him. Uncertainly, Ian accepted it and peered inside: it was water. He sipped it thankfully before returning it.

Laurel raised her other hand, settling her fingers lightly on his cheek, which he now realized was bandaged. "They patched this up, too. Thank goodness you didn't need stitches for them."

She removed her hand just as Ian reached up to run his fingers along the rough material. He found himself wondering if the blood that had dripped from those scratches still stained their carpet at home. He shivered.

"So if I'm breathing okay...why am I still here...?" he questioned.

"Your fever shot up. A _lot."_ Laurel responded. She glimpsed up at the ceiling. "With the amount of stress that was put on you, physically and emotionally...when the paramedics brought you here, your temperature was at 105. And it only just started going down earlier this afternoon."

Ian was dumbfounded. 105...that certainly explained why he still felt so frail. He swallowed, then moved on to his next question.

"Where's Barley?"

She nodded towards the other side of the room, and Ian turned his head. His older brother was there, laying down on what looked like a futon. Ian grimaced; it didn't look very comfortable. Barley's eyes were closed and he was breathing deeply and silently, a small cushion shoved haphazardly under his head.

"We haven't left since they set up this room for you," Laurel said. Ian returned his attention to her.

"How's he holding up?" He paused. "How are _you_ holding up?"

She gave a half-hearted chuckle. "Well...we've had better days. You have, too. We're just...you're going to be okay. That's the most important thing."

Ian bit his lip. He steeled himself.

"What's going on at the house? Did they ever catch the robbers?"

Laurel snapped her eyes to his, as though shocked he would ask such a question right now. Ian held her gaze.

"Mom, please...I want the truth."

A look of indecision formed in her eyes. Then she took a deep breath, and told him.

The criminals who had broken into their house and attacked him had already robbed several other houses up to that point. Their modus operandi had been to wait until all their occupants were gone, then to move in and take what they wanted. Something Ian had already known, but he was courteous enough not to interrupt.

When Ian had first called Colt for help, the policeman had radioed for reinforcements and had run straight home from his route. Ian was genuinely impressed that his stepfather hadn't stopped even once on the way; clearly the centaur's lower-body exercises had paid off. According to Laurel, he felt guilty that he couldn't get home in time to prevent Ian from getting hurt, but he held no ill will towards him--he knew Colt had done everything he could. Truth be told, Ian felt he was more at fault for not following Colt's instructions in the first place.

After Ian had been loaded onto the ambulance and Barley had left with him, Colt had overseen the processing of the crime scene--our home, Ian thought bleakly. They had searched around the outside of the house as well: Ian was relieved when Laurel told him they'd found the gun he'd managed to get away from the crooks. That thing didn't need to fall into the wrong hands again.

Colt had been splitting his time between home and the hospital--he'd been in his room earlier that day, in fact. Whenever he wasn't checking in on Ian, he was keeping Blazey company at the house. He'd also gotten to work fixing the place back up--putting things back in their proper places, tossing out everything that couldn't be salvaged, cleaning. His hope was that he could make the house welcoming again when they brought Ian home.

As for the burglars, the cyclops and gremlin had managed to reach their getaway car parked not too far away (Blazey definitely hadn't made it easy for the former)--they'd driven off without the elf crook, clearly only caring about themselves at that point. This was more than likely why, after Colt had succeeded in catching the third criminal and had wrestled him into one of the police cars that had arrived at the house, he'd ratted them out. He'd given the cops names, addresses and occupations, apparently deciding that if he was going down, his henchmen would suffer the consequences along with him.

Ian wished he could feel triumphant at their arrest--maybe he would, whenever he made a full recovery--but right now he just felt numb. He had one last inquiry.

"Mom? Did Barley get the rings back to you?"

Laurel's eyes began to shine with unshed tears as she reached into her jacket pocket. She pulled out the box and held it out for her youngest son to see.

"Ian...I appreciate you wanting to keep these safe...but you're so much more important. You know that, right?"

Ian could feel his throat beginning to close up, this time for reasons other than sickness or asphyxiation. "Are you saying I should've let those guys take them? They...Mom, they mean a lot to you. Losing them isn't what you would've wanted. It's not what Dad would've wanted, either!"

"Your dad would've wanted you to be _safe,_ no matter what," Laurel countered with emotion. Ian looked away. Her voice softened. "Our wedding rings...they symbolize so much. The day we were joined, the vows we took for each other, the hopes and dreams we had for our future..."

She cupped Ian's cheek, gently turning it to face her again.

"But if I had to choose between keeping them and keeping you...I'm going to choose you every single time. Because everything the two of us ever wanted...we got from you and your brother. Maybe your father couldn't be here when you arrived in the world, but he still loved you. His ring means a lot to me, but he doesn't exist in it...he exists in you."

Ian's eyes stung, and he shut his eyes so that he wouldn't cry. The two of them fell into silence, just listening to the rain. In spite of his aches and bruises, it was the most comfortable he'd felt in a long time, and he almost wished it would last forever. His mother, however, had other ideas.

She released him and stood up. "I'm going to go a vending machine, and I'll probably talk to some of the nurses, too. If you like, though, I can stop by the gift shop and get you something."

Ian shook his head. "I'm good, Mom. I appreciate it, though."

She ran her hand through his hair one more time, then left the room. Ian waited a few minutes...then he spoke.

"You can stop playing dead now."

Barley groaned and sat up. He looked at Ian in surprise; his brother gave him a wry smile in return. Barley stood on his feet, massaging the back of his neck.

"How did you know I was awake?" he asked as he made his way to the chair their mother had left vacant.

"Are you kidding me?" Ian asked incredulously. "Barley, you _snore."_

"Okay, that's a good point." He sat down. There was a beat.

"Mom knows that too, you know," Ian added thoughtfully. Barley shrugged.

The atmosphere was awkward, and Ian saw that Barley couldn't meet his eyes. "So," he said, trying to keep his voice light--not as simple a feat as it sounded with his ruined throat. "I saw you didn't get my text message."

"Oh, I saw it--I ignored it." Barley replied, his tone brittle.

_Of course he did,_ thought Ian. Still, it wasn't as though he could be upset. His brother was the reason he was alive, after all.

Barley still wasn't looking at him, and Ian found himself longing for his brother's normal bombastic attitude. Hearing him sound so soft-spoken and despondent was frightening, somehow.

"Barley...look at me, please."

Barley almost seemed to shrink into himself. Then he did as Ian requested, and the younger elf gasped at the sight of Barley's face. Just like their mother, there were bags under his eyes, but unlike their mother, the skin around one of his eyes was badly bruised, along with his cheek. His eyes were also glassy and red. For them to look like that, how hard had Barley been crying...?

"What happened to you?" Ian asked, gaping.

"The guy who attacked you...no, they all went after you...anyway, the guy that had you pinned. I was able to get him away from you, but...he put up a fight," Barley explained, his voice ragged from exhaustion and despair. Ian opened his mouth to speak, but Barley plowed on; it was as though someone had opened a floodgate.

"The second I read your text, I dropped everything and ran. I tried so hard to reach you, but there was some kind of traffic hold-up, and I mounted the curb to get around it, I-I ran the light, I thought I could make it! Then I ran into the house, and you were on the floor and that slimeball had you trapped, and I--" His voice broke, then he finished in a painful whisper.

"...I thought I was too late."

Ian stared at his devastated brother, feeling his insides twist. He searched his thoughts, trying to gather the words that could lighten Barley's pain...and maybe his own as well.

"Barley..." he began. His brother's eyes flickered back over to him. "...you did make it. Maybe you couldn't stop me from getting hurt, but that doesn't change the fact that you saved my life--I'd be dead if it wasn't for you! That should be enough!"

"It's not enough," Barley said harshly. "Ian, the whole reason you got hurt is because I left you alone. I wasn't there to protect you--I couldn't help you when you needed me most! If I had just stayed with you, they never would've broken in, and we wouldn't be here now."

"Barley, you went to get _medicine,"_ Ian reminded him, exasperated, "You left to help me! Even if you hadn't, though, there's no way you could've known what would happen!"

He wanted to say more, but he grew all too conscious of how parched all that talking had left him. He grunted in irritation as he tried to reach for the cup their mother had left. Barley noticed and made it easier by handing it to him. Ian took a couple of sips and just lay there, holding his cup.

"Besides," Ian continued when his throat felt marginally moist again, "you _did_ help me, in the long run, at least. I had my staff, and I did my best to remember everything you taught me."

Unexpectedly, Barley broke into a smile--it was small, but genuine, so Ian would count it as a win. "I heard about that--you chased two of those guys off all by yourself."

"Uh, not exactly..." Ian admitted. "Blazey ran after one of them--I don't think that guy will ever feel safe around dragons again."

"Nor should he," Barley agreed. He sounded a bit more like his usual self. "You still held your own, though. You were really brave."

At these words, Ian's relief dwindled. "Not really," he said dejectedly. "I was scared...especially towards the end, when the energy spell wore off."

"The energy spell, huh?" Barley hummed. "I figured that's what you must've used--that's the only way you could've held out as long as you did. Thing about that spell is, it's useful for getting through the end of a quest, but...not so much for starting it."

"Yeah...I figured that out."

Barley patted Ian's shoulder. "You were still brave." There was pride in his tone.

Ian gripped Barley's elbow. "And you still saved me."

"Well, I told you before...I'll always come for you."

The tension had dissipated, and Ian leaned further back into his pillow, content. He knew it couldn't last, though. Sometime soon he would have to relive that day when the police came for his testimony, and he didn't know how long it would be until he could feel secured in his own house again. He had no wish to ponder these things, so he committed himself to just enjoying this moment with his brother.

Barley's voice shook him from his reverie. "You wanna hear something funny?"

Ian tilted his head in curiosity. "Sure, why not?"

Barley grinned mischievously. "The robbers? They're all sick."

Ian gazed at him blankly. "Huh?"

"They're sick," Barley repeated. He looked gleeful, and Ian welcomed the light that came back into his brother's eyes. "All three of them ended up catching what you had!"

Ian was speechless. Then, amazingly, he started to laugh. Really, truly laugh. Inevitably he started coughing, so he drank some more water. "Well," he said when he composed himself, "I guess I got a little revenge after all."

"Yeah," Barley snickered, "you really did, Young Mage."

He raised his hand towards Ian's head, but stopped and drew back. Ian saw this, and told him, "Go ahead."

He closed his eyes as Barley ruffled his hair. Staying awake and talking so long had drained him, and Barley must've caught on to this, so he began an epic tale revolving one of his Quests of Yore adventures, one that involved action, suspense, wit and courage.

The rain still falling, his body recuperating, his mother somewhere nearby, and his big brother beside him sent him drifting into peaceful slumber...and he knew that the people he loved would be there when he awoke.

**Author's Note:**

> I take back what I said before--THIS is the longest short story I've ever written. O_O
> 
> Edit: I went back through this story and made a notable change: what I formerly typed as Dimzesta is now its proper term, Vimzesta. I went by the Quests of Yore manual, but the style of text made a lot of Vs resemble Ds; I didn't notice until I compared it to some other spells that could only have begun with a V. I'M SUCH A FRAUD! DX


End file.
